


Any idiot can snuggle

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock BBC) - Fandom
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, M/M, Prompt Fic, Schmoop, Sick John, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of us prefer to lick our wounds in solitude. Some people understand this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any idiot can snuggle

**Author's Note:**

> For the [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=watsons_woes)[](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=watsons_woes)**watsons_woes** 2012 July Writing Amnesty Prompt #6: Gratuitous and shameless H/C/Schmoop. Cosy firelight, fuzzy slippers, hot tea, fleecy blankets, small gestures, kittens and unicorns, whatever brings out the schmooper in you.

When John came home from his locum one winter night coughing, groaning, and sniffling wetly, Sherlock fled the building.

They'd been sleeping together for a few months now in the downstairs bedroom, but when he got out of the shower and bolted a couple of paracetamol John found a bundle of his pyjamas and sundries left outside that bedroom door. John took them and trudged up the stairs to his bedroom / office and moved the box of files off the bed. He got in and stayed there quietly hoping to die for about three to four days, coughing, muscles aching, head spinning, dreaming strange fevered dreams, and blowing his nose on an old T-shirt (there wasn't enough tissue or a big enough kerchief during these bouts).

In all that time John saw neither hide nor hair of his flatmate.

What he did see was the pitcher of water and the teakettle left by his bedroom door, along with a box of the lemon-ginger tea he mainlined when he was sick (and they hadn't had any in the cupboard that morning, he'd checked); the bottle of orange juice in the fridge that never ran out no matter how much he drank when he'd stumble downstairs (nor did the water-pitcher go dry); the clean pot on the stove beside the tin of soup when hunger drove him from his bed, no matter the time of day or night (it was the _clean pot_ that almost made him cry at the ridiculous sap).

What he heard late at night when he coughed too much to sleep were his favourite tunes played on a very talented violin, that also seemed to sweep away the worst of the fever-nightmares. And he once heard his flatmate's voice, regretful but firm, confronting a distressed Mrs. Hudson's voice and sending her away as well.

He didn't smell anything because his nose was blocked up, and he could barely taste the soup and juice. He felt achy and miserable all over, but only physically. He slept as much as he could, stayed hydrated via the magical teakettle and orange-juice-bottle, and let his antibodies fight it out in peace.

On day four (five?) he awoke with a sound head, a weak but better-feeling corpus, and a raving appetite. He wobbled downstairs, craving coffee and toast and beans once again, and there was Sherlock at the kitchen table poking at something noxious in the saucepan. "Two homicides that were hardly worth my time," he said peevishly. "I hope Lestrade has something better today."

John dropped a kiss on the back of his considerate lover's head and headed for the kettle. "I'm sure he's got something."


End file.
